


Addiction

by Caepio



Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare
Genre: Brutus has an opportunistic streak, M/M, One shot written in one go, Yikes with a side of yikes, hypocrisy among the upper classes, people getting in over their heads, public vs private, slightly different characterizations than usual, what if everyone actually was awful tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 02:57:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21331138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caepio/pseuds/Caepio
Summary: No one can say no to a Junii.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> I could probably do a lot more with this idea than I am. And I have an unhealthy amount of long term plot head canon for something I want to be a one shot. (And if you want to hear about *that* you know where to find me). And for that matter I’m not fully on board with these characterizations. But whatever. It happened. I finished it before I could second guess. Here ya go.

He can’t really say no.  
He thought he could, when it started.  
He thought _he_ had control.  


—54 BC--

It's one in the morning, and Antony is standing in Brutus’ study, watching him finish a letter, itching with the urge to rip the paper away from him, break his pen, and throw him down on the desk.

He doesn’t.

He knows how that will go. He knows _exactly_ how that's gone in the past. Brutus might not stop him in the moment. Antony might get what he wants just then. But he won’t see Brutus for weeks after. Brutus won’t speak to him or even _look at him_, much less invite him home. There was a time Antony would test that limit, but Brutus has more patience than he does.

So he waits.

Brutus sets down his pen, glances over his writing, and stands. He stretches idly, Antony watches the way his neck arches, the way his shoulders tense and relax. He comes around the desk and playfully hooks his fingers through the loop in Antony’s belt tugging him closer. _“Kind of you to wait…”_ He says quietly, teasing, charming in a way that makes you wonder where he's hiding a knife. 

“I can’t stay long.” Antony tries, and fails, to say convincingly. Brutus smiles and Antony wants to hit him, to wipe that expression from his face, but he doesn’t. He slides his arms around him instead, kisses him, struggling not to grab, and tear, and take what he wants _before Brutus says._

Brutus knots his fingers through Antony’s hair, fierce, provoking. He bites at Antony’s lower lip, pressing his body firmly against his in a kind of heated slide that makes Antony whimper and moan, grasping at Brutus desperately when he pulls away. 

“Bedroom. _Come on._” 

And Antony follows. 

Brutus pushes him down on the bed, kneeling over him and tugging off his own tunic. He presses his hands against Antony’s shoulders and leans down, kissing him, nipping at his jaw, sliding a hand down his chest, his stomach, between them, to wrap his fingers around Antony’s cock. 

Antony throws his head back, eyes screwed tight, heat raging under his skin. He feels Brutus shift back, kneeling between his legs, and he scrambles up, helping him get his tunic off. Brutus’ eyes darken, scanning over Antony. He leans down and presses an open mouthed kiss to the head of Antony’s cock, he takes him in his mouth but not very far, not anywhere near enough, and wraps his fingers around the base and slowly slides them up and down the shaft. Once, and again, and again, too slow, too precise, to satisfy.

Antony’s trembling. He tangles his fingers through Brutus’ hair, trying to get him to take his cock farther, trying to get him to do something, anything, _more_ and Brutus stills. He’s staring at Antony, expression unreadable, storm clouds threatening. 

He sits up, fingers trailing along the line of Antony’s hips, considering, and then he grabs his hand, pulling him up and flipping them, pulling Antony down between his legs and arching up in a needy, appealing way that makes Antony wonder why he ever tests the line and risks losing this. 

Brutus twists, reaching over to the bedside and grabbing a vial of oil. He nudges Antony back and hands it to him, spreading his legs and hooking his heels around the back of Antony’s thighs. 

Antony slides his hands down Brutus’ sides, settling on his hips. He wants to bruise, he wants to break, he wants to _own._ It doesn’t matter what Brutus says, boundary pushing is what Antony _does, Brutus should know that,_ and he pushes Brutus’ hips down, a little too hard, a little too sharply, and Brutus gasps, twisting away.

_“Don’t.”_

Antony stops. Feeling himself flush with something that feels a little too much like shame for comfort. 

He spills the oil a little, pouring it across his fingers, and Brutus relaxes, head thrown back. “Go slow.” He says quietly, _unnecessarily_; Antony knows what he likes. 

Antony doesn’t mind slow when it comes to this. For a minute, he can have a little control. He can make Brutus writhe, whimper, and gasp. He can drag it out till Brutus is pleading, but never quite _demanding_ that Antony _get on with it._

Brutus is flushed, sweaty, feet digging into the mattress as he pushes back against Antony’s fingers - Two, then three, and Antony thinks Brutus might start sobbing he wants it so badly. 

Brutus struggles to breathe, he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, bitting his lip to keep from moaning. “Alright-” He says after a moment, breathless, “Alright you can stop. I’m ready.” 

Antony twists his fingers, pressing up till Brutus arches and cries out. “Are you sure.”

“_Yes._” Brutus gasps, “I'm fucking sure.”

Antony grins, sliding his fingers free, “_Say please_.” He presses a palm against Brutus’ chest, leaning down and brushing his lips along Brutus’ jaw, down his neck, biting at his collar bone. “Come on Brutus, _say please for me._” He thinks almost anything would be worth it if Brutus would say that one word. 

Brutus wraps his arm around Antony’s shoulders, sweaty, heated, clinging to him, pleading with his body, a sharp counterpoint to his words — “_Do you really want to risk it?_” He asks, quiet, almost inaudible murmur, against Antony’s ear. “_Don’t push it._” 

He wraps his legs around Antony’s waist, canting his hips up, and Antony groans, in need and frustration. He reaches between them and guides his cock into Brutus, pressing his forehead against his shoulder, whining desperately as he slowly sinks into him. 

Brutus’ arms tighten around him and then loosen, he throws himself back against the bed, arching into Antony’s thrusts. He’s having trouble keeping quiet, little breathless cries each time Antony pulls almost all the way out, fingers bruising in their grip on Brutus’ hips, but Brutus either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, urging Antony on with every sound he makes, every desperate angle of his body. 

He’s arching more, muscles taut, eyes shut, breathing sharp and shallow, and Antony knows he’s on the edge. He slides his hands under Brutus’ hips and pulls him up, trying to get the angle right and Brutus’ nearly screams, tensing around him. 

Antony doesn’t last long. He never does when Brutus is _this_ tight. He cries out, biting Brutus’ shoulder to muffle the sound, falling into that last, brutal rhythm he can’t control. 

Silence. 

Brutus presses a hand against the center of Antony’s chest, pushing him off, and Antony falls to the bed next to him. He wipes the sweat from his eyes, struggling to breathe normally again. 

“Did you-” Antony can’t summon the energy to look over and see.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He feels Brutus get up, and then fall back into bed a moment later. 

“I can stay if you want to-” Antony begins.

“No. I still have work to do.”

“_It’s two in the fucking morning._”

“I slept a little before you came.”

Antony swears under his breath, without any real heat. He takes the glass of water from Brutus when he’s done with it - though you could barely tell, the spare, restrained way Brutus drank from it the same as his behaviour in every other part of his life. Almost every part. 

Brutus sits up, back against the wall beside the bed. His eyes are closed, his breath evening out. Antony reaches out, thumb stroking along Brutus' ankle, across his shin. A slave knocks on the door, breaking Antony’s peace.

“What is it?” Brutus calls out - Cold, precise as granite. And Antony wonders - How many people have spoken to him right after Antony’s fucked him and _never known._

“Dominus - Caius Cassius is here for you.” 

Antony sits up sharply, and Brutus laughs under his breath. “_Calm down_. He’s not coming in here. I think I’ve had enough for tonight.” 

Brutus pushes his hair back, breathes, and when he stands, it’s like there’s a different person there, like that person was right under his skin _waiting_. Shoulders straight, head back, spine rigid. He finds a clean tunic and tugs it on, stretching and settling into that controlled, fluid posture other people remark on. A cold, resourceful, razor-edge person whose gaze bites at Antony with derision, who’ll mock him in the street, try to destroy him in the senate, and keeps a marble wall between them.

He doesn’t say anything more to Antony. Doesn’t even look at him. He leaves the room. 

Antony throws his head back against the bed, sweat cooling on his skin, cursing himself. _I’m not going to do this again._ He thinks. _Not going to come here again._ And at the same time he wonders if he should stay, and see if Brutus really _has_ had enough. 

It doesn’t matter what he thinks, what he says - Wherever Brutus leads, he’ll follow, helplessly, like that first night, when he thought he was in control, when he thought Brutus asking him home was some kind of victory, and he could use him as he would.


End file.
